


30 days to Johnlock (ShSpesh!)

by JohnlockInferno (Frakme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of the English language in order to make cheesy Victorian porn, Anal, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Lock, Drabbles, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Holmes is a bossy bottom, Love Confessions, M/M, PWP, RST, Rimming, ShSpesh, Sherlock Special, UST, Wee bit of angst, mutual bathing, top!John, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frakme/pseuds/JohnlockInferno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 chapters of 100 words of Victorian smut... followed by nearly 6000 words of fluff, angst, love confessions and porn-with-feels. Victorian style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 30 Days to Go!

“Astounding!” I ejaculated, as Holmes finished explaining how a single hoof print had enabled him to deduce why the farrier’s son could not have been responsible for the heinous murder of the milkmaid.

“Thank’ee, Mister ‘Olmes,” said the grateful boy, though Holmes took no notice of his thanks, his eyes fixed on me. I noticed his colour was rather high as he gazed upon me, but I dismissed it as down to his exertion in chasing after the pony who had left the hoofprint.

We left Lestrade to arrest the guilty party and took a hansom home, Holmes smiling faintly.


	2. 29 Days to Go!

It was most disconcerting. I was attempting to add this latest mystery to my mind palace but next to me, Watson was proving to be a distraction. There was a smile playing on his lips as he sat next to me, merely a hand’s breadth from me and I found myself wondering what thoughts were occupying his rather ordinary, yet in many ways, remarkable brain.

My eyes drifted down to his hands, lying on his firm, muscular thighs, palms down and quite relaxed. As we arrived at Baker Street, I had to dismiss the thought of those hands on me.

 

 


	3. 28 Days To Go!

I greeted Mrs Hudson as we entered the house, removing my coat and hat before hanging them neatly, just in time to receive the garments that Holmes threw at me carelessly before racing up the stairs. I ignored Mrs Hudson’s muttering about my companion’s rudeness in ignoring her greeting and followed, somewhat more sedately, up the stairs.

Holmes was already supine on the sofa as I entered and settled myself quietly into my own chair. This would be an occasion he would prefer I did not speak. I did not mind, as I could gaze upon him, admiring his profile.


	4. 27 Days To go!

I delved into my mind palace and organised the data that I had acquired during this latest case. It was information that may come in useful again, however it did not take long to place it in the boxes I had created in my mind. However I remained in my mind palace far longer than I needed to as I re-examined what I knew of Doctor John Watson.

Recently, it seemed, I experienced a visceral reaction to my companion. A reaction I had not had since my callow youth. One that could put me at risk of committing criminal behaviour.

 

 


	5. 26 Days to Go!

I took up my notebook and pen to record the details of the case. I was confident that The Strand would be eager to publish this tale; there had been much interest in the doings of my esteemed friend. However, as I wrote my notes, I could not help but allow my eyes to occasionally drift over to him. His long, elegant hands were steepled under his chin and a defiant curl, despite the pomade Holmes used liberally to tame his hair, rested on his noble brow. I longed to touch it, but I dared not. Proprietries must be maintained.


	6. 25 Days to Go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I was so busy yesterday I forgot to publish this chapter!

Eventually, I opened my eyes to see what Watson was doing. He was sat by the fire, scribbling industriously in his notebook, no doubt fancifully recording our latest adventure. Yet he glanced up at me as I sat up, putting it aside.

“Shall I ring for tea, Holmes?” he said. I nodded curtly. As Watson rang the bell for tea, I stood up and reached past him to gather my tobacco supplies, having a craving for my pipe. As I did so, our gazes intersected… and was it a passing fancy that it seemed his eyes drift to my mouth?

 

 


	7. 24 Days to go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm now caught back up again!

Holmes stirred and rose from the sofa, so I offered to ring for tea. He reached across me for his pipe and tobacco. As he did so, our eyes met, yet I could not help but glance down at his mouth, his lips slightly parted.

A thrill traversed through me and I quickly looked away, reaching for the bell pull. He sat in the chair opposite me and prepared his pipe and my eyes fixed on his graceful fingers. Mrs Hudson entered with the tea tray as he took a puff, whilst looking at me in his acutely analytical way.

 

 


	8. 23 Days to go!

I puffed on my pipe, considering my companion. There was a high colour in his cheeks which I believed was not entirely due to the fire. Mrs Hudson began to prattle about some scandal in the Commons, but I dismissed her by ushering her to the door, closing it firmly behind her. As women go, she is not entirely without merit but I do prefer her silence in her duties.

Watson shook his head at, I assume, what he believes is my incivility towards the good lady. There was, however, a merry twinkle in his eye that belied his disapproval.


	9. 22 Days to go!

I watched as Holmes dismissed our good landlady in his usual abrupt manner. It was fortunate that she was accustomed to his brusqueness. Holmes wouldn’t be Holmes if he displayed the typical manners of a gentleman and to my eye, this was part of his charm. For he was indeed a charming man, unique in his form and intelligence.So I was also glad to have him to myself again.

I occupied an exalted position, as one that this misanthropic man would tolerate by his side day in and day out. What made me so special to this remarkable man?


	10. 21 Days to go!

I could tell what Watson was thinking, he was as easy to read as a book. Such a simple man, yet also a man of many layers. I had never unravelled the mystery of why he held my attention. There were more erudite and fascinating men in London, yet it was this doctor, veteran of the Afghan sands, who I desired by my side.

“Watson,” I said, extinguishing my pipe. “My dear Watson. I do not understand why you put up with me!”

He answered with a smile that brightened his face.

“You are the most amazing man I know.”


	11. 20 Days to go!

My companion flushed at my words of praise and there was a small sense of fright that perhaps I had spoken too intimately. Yet I could not tear my eyes away from his visage; the intelligent, sea green eyes, the high cheekbones and lips that looked as soft as a woman’s. In my most private moments, I had had the most impure, sinful thoughts about those lips.  
I stood up, meaning to retire to bed, my thoughts swirling in my head. But Sherlock stopped me at a gesture then turned to the sideboard to pour us both snifters of brandy.


	12. 19 Days to go!

I observed his raised heartbeat and rapid breathing. Alarmed? There was sweat beading on his brow. Aroused in some way, yes that was it! I poured us brandy and passed a glass to him. Our fingers met briefly as I did so and I felt a thrill pass through that shook me to the core. I watched as he downed the drink quickly, then placing the glass back on the sideboard, with rather a firm hand. I put my own down and approached him.

“Watson… John!”

He started at the use of his Christian name. Had I been too forward?


	13. 18 Days to Go!

The way he said my Christian name, in his deep, baritone voice, the intimacy of it. To my mortification, the simple syllable that rolled across his tongue caused the blood to rush down to that most private part of me. It was imperative that I made my escape before he noticed my carnal desire. He who valued the cerebral above the physical had, no doubt, complete control over his most base urges. Yet I was merely a man, of flesh, blood and bone.

But when I once again tried to leave, he stopped me with a hand on my arm.


	14. 17 Days to Go!

Yes! There were the signs… my dear friend was aroused, physically. I had already noted in the bathhouse that Watson was rather well endowed and it was quite obvious now. It intrigued me but clearly it discomforted him as he attempted to leave. I placed a hand on his arm.

“Do not leave,” I implored. He stopped and turned, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Holmes, you must forgive me, I-”

“No, my dear fellow. There is no need… as much as I value my mind, the seat of my reason, my body demands acknowledgement in the presence of certain stimulus.”


	15. 16 Days to go!

My eyes glanced down to see that there was a bulge in his trousers, that matched my own. I forced my eyes up, shocked at the revelation. Could he possibly mean that it was me he found arousing?

As long as I had known my companion, he had never voluntarily sought the company of a woman. Mostly, they were beneath his notice, though if one showed more than the expected intelligence of the fairer sex, he would engage them in intellectual intercourse.

I had assumed he was celibate, scorning carnal knowledge. Had I been hasty in my assumption?

“Holmes… Sherlock…”


	16. 15 Days to go!

When he said my Christian name, it was if my mind, normally racing like the swiftest steed, came to a stuttering halt. I stepped towards him, my tongue tied, an almost unheard of state of being to find myself in. As I closed the gap between us, he drew himself up in a way that would make most maidens weak at the knees. I was not unaware that I was affected in a similar way.

Slowly, I raised my hand, placing it on his face. His posture unbent and he leaned into my touch, a soft sigh upon his lips.


	17. 14 days to go!

I sighed as his large, graceful hand cupped my cheek, then quickly glanced at the door, checking it was still closed. It would not do to be caught in a compromising position. As I looked up into my companion’s eyes, his expression effulgent, a warmth spread through, enhancing my arousal.

I was not ignorant of certain relations between men. I had turned a blind eyes to intimacies in the bath house and certain clubs. Yet, my Christian upbringing reminded me that such acts were sinful and unnatural.

Something of my struggle was apparent to Holmes as he stroked my cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Hence the 'effulgent'.


	18. 13 Days to go!

“John… my dear John,” I murmured, for I could see his internal struggle written on his broad, honest face. “You know I have no belief in God. I do not trouble my conscious with having to justify myself to a higher power. I am a rational man, I rely on data, on theories proven and the evidence of my senses.”

“Sherlock,” he sighed and I could hear his surrender in my voice. “What do your senses tell you now?”  
“That I desire you, desire to touch you, to make you feel pleasure and that you want the same as I.”

 

 


	19. 12 Days to go!

“Of course you are right, Sherlock, you are always right. You see things far more clearly than I have ever done.” The words slip from me, damning me, damning us both. Yet his hand, which now moved to cradle the back of my neck, made me want to throw caution to the wind… or perhaps it was the brandy? My face tilted towards his as he moved closer and tentatively, his lips brushed mine.

Such a fleeting touch, yet the sensation that rushed through me was nothing I had ever experienced before. And, God forgive my sin, I wanted more.

 

 


	20. 11 days to go!

How could it be that I had longed for something without knowing? I, who’d abjured the desires of the flesh, now revelled in the sensation of John’s lips upon mine. Although I had initiated this, I rapidly began to feel out of my depth, for my knowledge of carnal relations were merely theoretical. I did not have his ‘three continents’ reputation. What if he were to find me inadequate? A disappointment? What if he came to his senses in disgust and condemned me for my presumption?

Yet his arms came around me and his lips pressed on to my own.

 

 


	21. 10 Days to go!

Our lips were sealed together and it sent a rush of heat to my loins. I sensed, more than felt, Sherlock’s hands fluttering at my side. It was if he did not know what to do with them! It surprised me to feel his uncertainty, for Sherlock Holmes always seemed to be a man of worldly knowledge and great confidence. A genius of a man who I looked up to, both literally and figuratively.  
I knew now I had to lead in this, take us down a path that could potentially be dangerous. My courage would not fail me now!


	22. 9 Days to go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In to single figures now! Woot!

Ahh! My dear captain was in charge now and I was quite satisfied to be yielding to him. It is a mark of the strength of our regard for each other that I could follow his lead, when it was usually I that marked out the path ahead. I let his tongue tease apart my lips and my knees weakened at the sensation. It seems his reputation as a lover had not been exaggerated. Our bodies pressed together and I could feel the hardness of his manhood press against my stomach, a hardness that matched that of my own cock.

 

 


	23. 8 Days to go!

I had the urge to taste him as I press my tongue between his lips. He tasted of brandy and tobacco, an intoxicating combination. We were both fully aroused and I made the decision that we needed to relocate to a more comfortable location. I pulled my lips from his, somewhat reluctantly and smiled at him.

“May I take you to your bedchamber? You do have the bigger bed!”

Sherlock smiled back at me.

“A sensible plan, dear fellow!” he agreed, warmly.

I lead him into the bedchamber, the fire blazing in the hearth the only light in the room. 


	24. 7 Days to go!

We gazed at each other and I felt as nervous as a bride on her wedding night. Certainly an unexpected feeling to experience. John looked at me and I could see a hunger in his eyes, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips. He approached me and put his hands up to my cravat.

“May I?” he said, in a strong yet soft voice. Despite my usual loquaciousness, the power of speech had left me and I merely indicated my permission with a small nod of my head.

I stood still as he slowly stripped me of my garments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all my readers. Hope Santa brings you everything you ask for!


	25. 6 Days to go!

Reverently, I undressed him until he stood before me naked as a newborn babe. Even though I had seen him in the bath-house many times before, this was the first time I had ever really looked. He quite took my breath away, his lean, yet muscular form, smooth pale skin and his cock standing proudly from a nest of dark curls. It was thinner but slightly longer than my own. Hastily I divested myself of my own clothes, eager to have us on an equal footing. There was no going back, as I saw his eyes move rapidly over me.


	26. 5 Days to go!

As if our minds were as one, we made our way to the bed, the coverlet having already been turned down by our housekeeper. Though there were lamps by the bed, their wicks trimmed in readiness, we ignored them, content with the warm, flickering light of the fire. John slipped under the covers and smiled boldly at me, his earlier reticence now banished by desire.

“Come now, my dear boy and let me touch you!”

The slightly commanding tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine as I joined him eagerly. He pulled me to him and kissed me. 


	27. 4 Days to go!

Sherlock responded so eagerly, almost melting into my embrace. I groaned as I felt his long, elegant fingers touch my hard shaft, tentatively at first and then more firmly. I was compelled to return the favour and reach down to grasp his manhood, which felt like silk covered iron in my hand. Slowly at first we stroked each other as we continued exchanging kisses.

It was so different from being with a woman, gentleness was neither needed or wanted here as we gripped each other firmly.

“John,” Sherlock moaned and his voice was as wanton as the most seductive concubine.

 

 


	28. 3 Days to go!

As we pressed together, I was eager to expand my knowledge of him. Feeling his hardened member pressed against me, I succumbed to the urge to touch it, to stroke it, first gently, then more firmly. The feel of him intrigued me, as I memorised the weight and size of the cock in my hand, an impressive specimen.

I was soon distracted from my analytical thoughts when I felt John’s strong, broad hand enclose me and mimic my movements on his own cock. Though I had self-pleasured before, this felt different! I was soon overcome, my mind surrendering to pleasure.


	29. 2 Days to go!

There was something transcendent in seeing my cerebral friend so undone, his hair now in wild curls around his head, his eyes dark with lust, lips swollen. I was the cause of this, I thought joyously and the knowledge brought me to my peak as his hand so skillfully worked its magic on my tumescent length. I groaned again as my orgasm thundered through me and I released onto our bellies. Soon after he sighed and released his own pleasure, his emissions mingling with mine.

We lay quietly, still so close. No matter what, I would never regret this moment.


	30. 1 Day to go!

It was my John who reached his completion first, spilling warm over my hand. It did not take much for me to follow him into bliss, pleasure flowing through my veins. It left me in a state of torpor, my limbs heavy. I didn’t care about the cooling evidence of our lust sticking us together, as long I could stay with him whom I esteemed above all others.

Tomorrow there maybe regrets and consequences, but now was our moment of heaven. I knew that come what may, this would not be the end. I was his and he was mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is Sherlock Special day! The day we have all been waiting for! As for this little story... it is not over for there is one more chapter to come.  
> And to reward my patient readers who have followed every chapter, the next chapter will be nearly 6,000 words of Victorian smut.  
> And once I have published this chapter, I will update the tags so you can see what delicious treats I have in store for you.


	31. Happy Sherlock Special Day!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it's the morning after!
> 
> It's all unbeta'd so any mistakes and anachronisms are my own.

Slaked desire and the energy expended chasing after a murderer soon exerted their toll on the two men and they were soon lured into the arms of Morpheus. They slept deeply, the sleep of those of clear conscience, restful and wholesome.

Holmes was the first to awake, blinking in surprise to see the dull, filtered sun highlighting the dust motes floating in the air around them, for in their focus on one another, they had failed to notice the open drapes. It was many hours past the dawn, judging by the length of the shadows on the coverlet and the sounds of activity, of horseshoes on cobbles and myriad voices in conversation, from the street outside.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, his stirring disturbing his bed partner, who huffed and smacked his lips before opening his eyes. Disoriented, Watson took a moment to adjust to the somewhat unexpected surroundings, then the memories of the previous night came flooding back. He sat up abruptly and stared at Holmes in the bed next to him.

“Holmes!” he whispered, then pursed his lips shut as he knew not what else to say.

“Watson… John,” replied his companion and there was a tone of uncertainty Watson had never heard before in his voice. “Are you quite well, dear fellow?”

The good doctor cleared his throat and nodded. Holmes smiled at him, an expression of tenderness and affection that touched Watson deeply. What they had done last night, not only was a sin in the eyes of the church, but illegal according to the law of the land. Yet seeing those clever eyes, so soft as he gazed upon him, Watson could not find himself to care as he reached over to take Holmes’ hand.

“Sherlock… my dearest. I am simultaneously elated, yet anxious about this turn of events. I must confess that I have wanted you for some time, but I suppressed my feelings, knowing it was wrong, that it could be disastrous. I made myself content to be your friend, your companion and helpmeet in all your endeavours, for I believed that you would never feel things this way.

“Yet this previous evening we have taken a step into a forbidden territory, one that could bring us great joy, while risking calamity. Do we dare take further steps? Or do we draw a line under this, cherish the memory in our hearts and go back to what we were?”

Holmes considered Watson’s words carefully.

“Forget what happened? I do not believe that is possible, John,” replied Holmes quietly. “And certainly, on my part, that is not desired.”

The fire had long died down and the air in the room was chill. Watson reluctantly removed himself from the warm cocoon of Holmes’ bed to relight the fire, throwing his nightgown back on before he did so. He soon had a merry blaze going, then returned to the bed.

Holmes gathered Watson to him, then kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

“You are in need of a shave, John,” he said. “And we are both in need of a thorough wash!”

Watson blushed slightly, the stickiness on his belly was quite uncomfortable, but his need for warmth had overridden his need to clean himself with what would undoubtedly be stone cold water.

“Right as ever, dear boy,” sighed John. “And it is late in the morning. Whatever will Mrs Hudson think!” His expression grew sombre as he thought of their good landlady and, by extension, others of their acquaintance. The thought of their disapproval of this turn of events sent a chill through him.

“We should discuss this further, Sherlock,” he considered. “Do you not agree?” Holmes nodded sharply then threw the coverlet off himself.

“I believe tea is required,” replied Holmes, decisively. “Come, let us make ourselves respectable and we will discuss this further.”

* * *

Watson retired to his room through the adjoining door in Holmes’s chamber to clean and dress himself and soon the two of them were in the sitting room, in their respective chairs, Sherlock preparing his pipe. Mrs Hudson soon arrived with tea and the papers.

“Well I never, it’s about time you two rose for the day! Half of it’s gone and there’s a telegram for you, Mr Holmes!”

Watson set about pouring the tea as Holmes took the telegram from their housekeeper who quickly excused herself, entering Holmes’ bedchamber with the intent of making up the bed. She didn’t see the good doctor freeze, his face becoming as pale as milk as he looked at his companion who was quietly puffing away on his pipe.

“Holmes,” he hissed. “She will know, she will see my bed unslept in and your bed in rather more disarray than usual!”. Holmes discarded the telegram in the fire, with a muttered ‘How tedious!’, before turning his countenance back to Watson, with a reassuring smile.

“Fear not, old chap, for part of the reason I took these rooms is that I know that our dear Mrs Hudson, for all her chattering, is as closed mouthed as a priest in the confessional. She also happens to have a nephew, who lives in Bath, who I know is an invert and Mrs Hudson is the only one of his family who will deign to correspond with him.”

He didn’t elaborate on what else he knew of the woman, of her rather Bohemian youth. He did, however, notice how Watson flinched at the term ‘invert’.

“Watson, this disturbs you, does it not? Had you known my proclivities when we first met, would you have refused to share rooms with me?”

Watson considered his answer carefully. He had always prided himself on being a modern thinker, despite his strict, High Church upbringing. He thought back to their first meeting and how utterly fascinated he had been by this mysterious man who had come into his life. A man who deserved nothing less than his honesty and who would detect anything less.

“No, Holmes. It may have given me pause, but it was your mind that had me captivated. In addition, I took you for a man of abstinence with regards to the desires of the flesh." Watson then paused before speaking again, lowering his voice and staring into the hearth.

"And if I am completely candid, I should confess that I did feel a certain visceral attraction to your appearance, for you are, dare I say, comely to my eyes. I have experienced attraction to other men before, when I was a student and when I was in the army, but such attractions had been internally suppressed in the belief they were would be harmful to my career, should they come to light.”

Holmes looked pleased at this admission.

“And if I also might be just as frank, then I tell you that you captivated me on many levels, dear John, that day we met. I was guarded though, for I feared I would drive you away with my peculiar habits and eccentricities, as I had many another potential companion. That you did not turn from me in anger or contempt as others have done seemed to me, a miracle. How blessed I was the day Stamford introduced us!”

Watson chuckled softly in reply.

“Dear Stamford! It occurs to me often that a token of gratitude is due to my old friend, that by his serendipity, you and I should meet.”

Holmes smiled warmly, a rare expression for him.

“You are quite right, Watson. We shall do that today!”

At that moment, Mrs Hudson, a bundle of sheets in her arms, entered the sitting room from Watson’s room.

“I shall bring you some breakfast if you wish? I have some nice kippers and I picked up some fresh rolls from the bakers’ this morning!” Her tone was as cheerful as it always was, no hint that she had discovered anything shocking in their rooms. Watson was both surprised and relieved at this revelation.

She departed, without waiting for a response from either man and they knew she would soon be back, tray laden with their breakfast, of which Watson would eat heartily and Holmes, sparingly.

Watson looked across to his companion and sighed. His expression softened as he regarded Holmes who was staring into the fire, a contemplative look on his patrician face. He truly was a handsome man, Watson thought, with admiration. He could not help but feel rather drab beside him. What in Heaven’s name did Holmes see in him, that would make him succumb to the very desires of the flesh upon which he had always looked down?

* * *

They spent the day together, with steaming cups of coffee and pipes of tobacco in the Criterion, while Sherlock quietly deduced the patrons sitting nearby. The weather was pleasant, cool and crisp; even the smog wasn’t quite so bad as usual. They took a walk around Regent’s Park, arm in arm, discussing a monograph that Watson had recently received on a recent consumption outbreak.

They stopped at a shop that sold the finest Turkish coffee and bought half pound bags of a few different varieties, dropping them off at Stamford’s residence with a brief note. Watson knew that Stamford had a fondness for the strong brew and this was decided upon as the perfect gift.

It was almost supper-time by the time they returned to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson greeted them at the door, noting their chilled faces, glad she had kept the fire in their sitting room well stoked. They were soon sat by the hearth, a hearty meal left for them on the dining table. Watson soon fell upon the repast but Holmes merely helped himself to tea before picking up his violin. He played while Watson ate and continued playing when the doctor had eaten his fill and had returned to his seat by the fire.

Watson watched him, unashamedly admiring the graceful figure of Holmes playing his violin. Once again, he marvelled how such a seemingly cold logician could produce such beautiful music, with such a depth of feeling that could melt the most frozen of hearts!

His own heart ached to the point he feared it would burst as the lustrous melodies worked themselves on his psyche. How fortunate he was to be here, to be a companion of such an extraordinary man. Someone who he counted as his dearest friend… his dearest love.

Yes indeed, he was deeply and desperately in love with Holmes. The thought of a life without him was one that horrified him down to his marrow. Really, could such a love be wrong? Love between men had been spoken of throughout history, it was only in these recent times that society had begun to look upon it with a disapproving eye. Despite the risks, Watson was certain to live a lifetime of regrets if he turned away from Holmes now.

Eventually Holmes stopped playing, the final votes reverberating around the peaceful room. Gently, he placed the violin and bow back in its case, as careful as a mother with her newborn babe. He glanced over to Watson who, so absorbed in his thoughts that he was startled to realised that Holmes was now stood by his chair, his hand held towards him. Watson looked up and there was an unexpected softness and uncertainty in the high cheek-boned face. He grasped Sherlock’s hand in both of his and allowed him to pull him up out of his seat.

“Your thoughts are written upon your face, my dear John,” spoke Holmes softly. “But I wish to hear them in your voice.”

“Last night…” Watson began hesitantly, before gathering his courage and adopting a more confident tone. “Last night, I would wish it to be repeated. Not only that, I wish to know if I have your regard above all others. For you should know that I love you, with all my heart. And that I hope that you could possibly share this sentiment.”

Holmes regarded Watson with a gentle look in his eyes, then spoke, his voice deep and filled with meaning.

“I never thought I would hear such words directed at myself. I had schooled myself not only not to expect them, but to be repelled by them. Yet, you, you have changed my outlook on love. For I confess I love you deeply, dearest John. That you are as essential to me as the air that we breathe. And that I desire to pleasure you again and to allow myself to feel the same pleasure with you.

“I have never wanted that before. Carnal lust has held no interest to me, it was just an inconvenient demand on my body. It seems I have made an error in judgement.”

Watson was caught off guard by Holmes’ admission. He stared wide eyes into the earnest face of his friend. Then recalling how Holmes’ had responded to his ‘take charge’ attitude of the previous night, he spoke up boldly.

“Sherlock, you extrapolated from incomplete data, I fear. Perhaps that is something we could address?”

Holmes nodded sharply and his smile turned impish.

“I need to acquire more data,” he responded. “Will you help?”

“God, yes!” gasped Watson.

* * *

While the two men had been eating supper, Mrs Hudson had been busy drawing a bath. They moved away from each other when she entered the room, drying her hands on her linen apron.

“Your bath’s ready, Mr Holmes” she cried cheerily. “Now make use of it while it’s still hot! Doctor, will you also require a bath this evening?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. Tomorrow night, yes.”

“Very good, Doctor, I shall leave you to it then.” She cleared away the supper dishes, then bustled away down to her own rooms, leaving the two men alone. Their eyes met with a growing sense of intimacy. They knew they would not be disturbed for the rest of the evening and they were free to be Sherlock and John, intimate companions, once more.

“I should leave you to your bath,” ventured John, though there was a hopeful expression on his face.

Sherlock pursed his lips together, before gazing hawk-like at his companion. His countenance softened as he took in the wistful look on his dear one’s face.

“Would you… perhaps you would consider it impractical… that is to say, John. Would you care to join me?”

A thrill of great joy swept through John as Sherlock stumbled over his words, seemingly as shy as a maid. It was a rare, yet enchanting thing to see.

“If you wish it, Sherlock. I will.”

They soon entered the room set aside for bathing. The large cast iron tub was full of steaming water and there was sprigs of dried lavender, giving off a delightful, relaxing scent. John checked to see there was plenty of clean towels in the press and they both stripped off, clothes piled on a nearby chair. John had brought their nightgowns in and placed them near the fire.

Sherlock stared enraptured at the nude form of his companion. The firelight in his bedroom had not provided sufficient light to examine him and, in addition, they had not lingered before climbing into the bed. Here, with light from the gas jets on the walls, his eyes examined minutely John’s form, noting his well formed musculature, the softness of his belly, his smooth skin, a slightly darker shade than his own pale complexion. The most fascinating feature of John Watson was, to Sherlock’s eyes, the pitted crater on his shoulder, legacy of a Jezail bullet. Almost without volition, his hand came up to touch the scar, lightly running the tips of his fingers so he could memorise the texture of the scar tissue.

John firmly took Sherlock’s hand and removed it from his body, a self-conscious look upon his face.

“Come now, the water will be getting cold!”

Sherlock sighed in a theatrical manner.

“Oh very well, then. And how should we accomplish this feat of two men in a bath, without causing a scandal?”

It was fortunate that the tub was generously proportioned and both men would able to sit themselves comfortably within, facing each other, Sherlock’s longer legs positioned on the outside of John’s. They took turns with the soap and loofah, scrubbing themselves clean and there was much merriment on each of their parts as the slippery soap made its escape into the increasingly murky water.

“Turn around, my dear,” ordered John. “I shall wash that pomade out of your hair.” Sherlock complied, in an unusually docile manner, pulling himself up onto his knees so he could turn around. He then lowered himself between John’s legs and a shiver ran through him as he felt John’s half-hard cock press against his buttocks. Then he felt John close in, his lips brushing the nape of his neck and soon his own cock was in a similar state.

“Forgive me, dear chap,” murmured John. “It is quite clear to me we should hasten the end of our bath time!” He then retrieved the soap from the little shelf next to the bath and proceeded to lather up his hands so he could wash Sherlock’s hair, which he did, tenderly massaging the scalp, enjoyable in the happy sighs that Sherlock vocalised.

He rinsed Sherlock’s hair and then put his arms around him, pulling him closer. Gently he ran his hands over the thin, pale chest as Sherlock lay pliable and quiet in his arms. The hands slowed as they went lower, first teasing at Sherlock’s nipples until they hardened, then caressing the firm flat muscles of Sherlock’s chest and stomach. Privately, he thought that Sherlock could stand to gain a little more weight but he knew that was a fruitless argument.

Sherlock in turn caressed John’s strong thighs, as John’s hands went even lower, stimulating his nerves until he felt as if he was tingling all over. Then he groaned as those sure, steady hands encountered the nest of public hair at Sherlock’s groin and his engorged shaft.

“Sherlock, do you wish me to…?”

“Oh yes, John, please do!”

More confidently than yesterday, John grasped the thick column of flesh and began to stroke it firmly. He glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder to see a pearlescent dew drop form at the small slit, which John brushed away with his thumb, eliciting another shiver from Sherlock.

“Ah, Sherlock… to see you like this,” whispered John, reverently. “It is a great privilege, that you have put your trust in me in this way.”

“I trust you... as I have trusted... no other, John!” stuttered Sherlock, as he relaxed back into John’s strong arms and let himself give into the rising pleasure that swept through him. He let out a groan as John’s strokes became faster and surer, until he stiffened all over as he reached the peak of his pleasure, his ejaculate spurting onto his chest and stomach. John wiped it away with the bathwater then pushed the now enervated man to a more upright position.

“Come on, dear chap, we must get out,” said John, firmly. Sherlock made small noise of protest, before standing up and stepping out of the bath. He acquired a towel and wrapped it around his waist just as John was stepping out to do the same.

Sherlock could not help but notice that John’s cock was still hard, the foreskin completely drawn back and the head dark red, infused with blood. The sight of it made Sherlock’s mouth water and he had the sudden urge to taste it. Before John could pick up the other towel, Sherlock was on his knees before the other man, grasping his hips firmly.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing, Sherlock?” asked John. Then, “Oh!” he gasped as, to his astonishment, Sherlock took him into his mouth.

It had been years since John had experience such pleasure. The last time had been in a brothel that was popular amongst the medical students of his acquaintance. His late, not very lamented, wife had never so much as put her lips anywhere in the vicinity. When it came to coitus, she was content to lay there and allow John to work his will upon her body, while she, no doubt, went over the household budget in her head.

Now he was overwhelmed by the feel of Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth sliding up and down his cock, tentatively at first then becoming bolder as he took more and more of John’s erection into his mouth.

John entwined his fingers into Sherlock’s damp hair, now in a disarray of Botticellian curls. He breathed deeply, keeping his posture still, fearing to injure Sherlock if he gave in to the urge to thrust down that long white throat. The feeling of Sherlock’s tongue pressing against the frenulum and his lips sliding greedily up and down his shaft was like nothing he’d ever felt before. John felt the tightening of his bollocks, heralding his impending release.

“Sherlock, I must… I will…,” he gasped, attempting to extricate himself from Sherlock’s mouth. But Sherlock’s grip on his hips tightening and John could not hold back any longer as he released his pleasure and felt Sherlock swallow it down. Sherlock released his hold on John’s now softening cock and some of John’s emission spilled over his full bottom lip. John tenderly brushed his mouth against Sherlock’s, unashamed to taste himself.

“That was astounding, Sherlock… an unexpected pleasure!” Sherlock got to his feet and observed the awestruck expression on John’s.

“Certainly it was an interesting experience,” he said as he towelled himself dry before slipping his nightgown over his head. “I’ve made a note of the taste and texture of your ejaculate. One never knows when such information might come in useful.”

John gave out a hearty chuckle.

“Only you, Sherlock. Only you could make such a statement and yet make it seem romantic!”

Sherlock huffed in disapproval but there was a merry light in his eyes.

“And this is why I complain that your stories are so romanticised. Now come, I wish to take you to my bed.”

* * *

In the bedchamber, John once again prepared the fire in the hearth, while Sherlock ensured the heavy drapes were tightly closed. As the flames in the hearth grew and warmed the room, so did the flames of passion between the two men grow. It was if a dam had been released; all their pent up desires had flooded them and they could not be contained again. They were both wise to the risk of discovery, having followed the trial of Oscar Wilde with dismay, though they themselves had relocated to Cambridge during that time, to solve a case that had been brought to the great detective.

Out in public they would need to be souls of discretion, but here in their private chambers, they were free to reveal the innermost desires of their hearts, minds and bodies. And so they removed their nightgowns, unwilling to have any barriers between them, as they lay down on the bed. They reached for each other simultaneously, to exchange soft, gentle kisses. As they had not so long ago expended their passion, the desire that had grown between them was not quite so intense, giving them time to leisurely explore each other, hands exploring each other.

John eventually broke off the kiss to enquire of Sherlock,

“What is it you desire, my dearest?”

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully, then spoke.

“Some time before we first met, I took a case on the behest of a private client, who shall remain nameless. It required me to investigate a male brothel, several clients of the establishment had died in mysterious circumstances. The only link between the murdered men was that they frequented this particular brothel and so it was suspected that one of the boys there had a murderous intent.

“During the course of the investigation, in which I discovered that it was actually one of the servants contaminating the drinks offered to clients with belladonna, I had cause to witness the chief suspect, who had been most visited by the dead men.

“He was a beautiful boy, aged one-and-twenty, with fair skin, blue eyes and blond curls that hung to shoulders. His most beguiling aspect, it seemed, was his enthusiasm for the act of buggery. I must confess I was entranced by his reactions to being penetrated, the look of ecstasy on his face, to the point I almost embarrassed myself. 

“Once the case was solved to my satisfaction, I returned home and found, to my dismay, I could not shake the image of the boy taking so much pleasure in such an act, especially as the larger the cock in him, the happier he seemed to be. And so I experimented… for occasionally I find myself in need of release, as much as I would like to, I cannot always will my physical desires away.”

“And how did you experiment?” asked John, his voice heavy with lust.

Sherlock did not reply, instead he opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand and drew out a velvet drawstring bag, which he passed to John. Opening it, John gasped to see three phallic like objects. Dildos; three different sizes, all made of the smoothest wood and anatomically correct, the largest of which was a good approximation of John’s own impressive phallus.

“Sherlock, are you saying you would like…”

“Yes, John, I would like you to bugger me.”

Heat rushed to John’s groin at the thought of such an intimate act. He could see it almost in his mind’s eye, Sherlock crouched over the bed, slowly sliding the large dildo in and out of himself, a look of ecstasy on his face. He wanted that, wanted to see that look for himself to know that he was the one taking Sherlock to such pure wantoness.

In a sudden and aggressive movement, John flipped Sherlock onto his back.

“If that is what you desire,” he uttered lustfully, “Then that, my dear boy, is what you shall have. And when I have finished with you, you will not need such toys again.”

Sherlock smirked wickedly and with an easy grace that belied his strength, he flipped both of their bodies so he was now atop of John, straddling his hips and grinding his groin against John’s. He bent over to capture John’s lips in a passionate kiss, then reached into the drawer once more to retrieve a small phial, one that John assumed contained some kind of lubricant.

“Olive oil,” explained Sherlock. Then with a coy smile, he added, “Extra virgin.”

John’s expression was one of puzzlement as he attempted to decipher Sherlock’s words and expression, then he gasped as he derived Sherlock’s meaning.

“You mean that…”

“Yes, John. I have never desired to be penetrated by anyone before. You would be the first to do so.”

A tender expression washed over John’s warm, solid features. Such trust Sherlock had placed in him! He was so deeply touched by Sherlock’s devotion.

“My darling, my dearest heart, I am yours,” whispered John reverently, lifting his hands up to take Sherlock’s fair, clever face into them. “You beauty, my beautiful, gorgeous genius!”

“Really, John, must you use your mouth for such trivialities when it could be put to much better use?” Yet John smirked as he saw the rosy glow across Sherlock’s face, neck and chest that was the result of his effusive praise.

“As always, you are right, Sherlock,” admitted John. “Then allow me up!”

Gracefully, Sherlock lifted himself up off John and arranged himself so he was lying supine upon the bed next to John. He lifted his knees so his feet were flat to the bed, then let them fall apart, spreading his milky thighs to John’s hungry gaze. His thin, elegant cockstand stood proudly up from its nest of curls, the tip shiny and rose red. John rose up to drink in this vision of masculine loveliness and bent down to kiss the cockhead that seemed to wink at him with its glistening slit. He then manoeuvred himself so he was kneeling between Sherlock’s spread thighs. He stroked up and down those muscular limbs and Sherlock grasped the brass bedstead, as John bent to kiss and lick his inner thighs, up towards his bollocks, the sensation causing Sherlock to writhe like a cat in heat. He cried out as John mouthed first one, then the the other of his balls. He then licked a slow, wet stripe on the underside of Sherlock's cock before sitting upright once more.

“Turn over and up at onto your knees,” ordered John. “That would be an easier way to manage this business!” Once again, the curiously compliant detective obeyed his captain and soon Sherlock was presenting his plush posterior to John’s eager perusal. It looked so very tempting, those rounded, pale globes that were lightly flushed a delicate pink. He used his large capable hands, to part the buttocks, to view the secret little passage with which he was eager to make his acquaintance. Lightly he brushed with his thumbs that tiny furled entrance, coloured a dusky pink and Sherlock gasped in pleasure as he did so.

John did frown as he lightly prodded the ring of muscle that was tightly closed. How on Earth was he meant to fit into that tight channel without causing an injury? As if sensing John’s thoughts, Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

“You must open me up, stretch me with your fingers and the oil!” he demanded impatiently.

John immediately reached for the oil and coated his fingers thoroughly, before lubricating the sphincter with the tip of the finger. The flesh was exceeding sensitive, judging by Sherlock’s happy sighs and twitching of his hips. Tentatively, he breached the muscle with his index finger. Slowly, his finger penetrated, to find hot, silky flesh grasping his finger tightly. Slowly, he moved his finger in a tight spiral, to encourage the muscle to loosen.

Another idea occurred to him, one he would have immediately dismissed had he not known of Sherlock’s careful attention to his toilet habits and cleaniness. He bent his head and reached out his tongue, to taste the hole that was now fluttering slightly. It tasted of the olive oil, overlaying a musky, salty taste that was Sherlock’s own. Sherlock clearly approved of this turn of events as he let out a cry and then attempted to shuffle back to gain more of John’s tongue. John took a firm grip of Sherlock’s hips and licked more confidently, before shaping his tongue to a sharp point and, with a intrepidness that was a hallmark of a soldier, penetrated Sherlock’s little orifice, wriggling his tongue into through the tight sphincter. The taste was stronger now, but not unpleasant and the resultant sounds of pleasure from Sherlock gratified him.

Steadily he worked his tongue and Sherlock began to loosen up, still uttering sweet moans of pleasure. John had worked him so that his orifice was now loose and wet and this time John’s finger penetrated easily.

“Another!” barked the impatient Sherlock. “Get on with it, man!”

John chuckled at the imperiousness in Sherlock’s tone. Even like this, on his hands and knees, arse in the air, Sherlock was still superior in every way. Obediently, he inserted a second finger and began scissoring the now pliable muscles into stretching further. He reached with those two fingers deeper until he found a little nub; the prostate of whose function he was very familiar. He stroked it gently and Sherlock groaned again.

“Please, John!” he begged, now sounding so very lost and unlike himself. “More!”

He had Sherlock positively monosyllabic now as he added a third finger which also met little resistance in Sherlock’s eager passage. It was time now, his own cock was aching to be encased in the sweet, hot flesh of Sherlock’s passage and Sherlock’s own cock was in need of attention as well. Slicking his cock up with more of the olive oil, John pushed the tip of his cock to Sherlock’s entrance and then pushed gently, John's cockhead easing through Sherlock's sphincter.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” cried Sherlock. “I am not some dainty doll, John!” To John’s shock, Sherlock thrust back and impaled himself onto John’s hard cock.

“Oh God!” John cried out. “Sherlock are you alright? Did that not hurt?” For Sherlock’s body gripped him tightly, fiercely.

“Give me one moment, if you will, John.” Sherlock was breathing sharply and John reached around to find his cock had softened slightly. He obeyed, kept still and waited for Sherlock to tell him what to do. He lightly stroked Sherlock’s member which hardened in his hand. Growing confident he began to firm up his strokes, enjoying how responsive Sherlock was to his touch.

“Now move, John!” asked Sherlock and there was no mistaking the lust in his voice. Gently at first and then growing bolder, he began to thrust out and in of Sherlock’s compliant body. He angled himself so that his cock brushed Sherlock’s prostate and was rewarded with loud moans of pleasure and cries of ‘more!’ and ‘harder!’.

It was utterly delicious, a marvel to be joined to Sherlock in this matter, the tight pressure of Sherlock on his cock was simply exquisite. He released Sherlock’s cock then pulled him up so that Sherlock was sat in his lap. Sherlock responded by bouncing up and down so hard the bed shook and John dimly wondered if Mrs Hudson would come calling, concerned about the disturbance, especially as Sherlock moaned licentiously each time he sank deep onto John's cock. But that was merely a fleeting notion as the pleasure he was feeling pushed every other thought out of his mind. He bent his head to kiss Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, then ran a hand through his curls, even as he once again grasped Sherlock’s cock. A few more strokes and Sherlock was crying out lustily as he expended his pleasure onto the bed. His passage twitched around John’s cock in such a pleasurable way, it provoked his own orgasm and he spent himself inside Sherlock’s quivering channel.

How they remained upright, it was hard to see as they were both so wrung out by their mutual pleasure. John’s softening cock slowly slipped out of Sherlock who then collapsed face first onto the bed. John parted Sherlock’s buttocks to check for any damage and was mesmerised by the sight of his emissions dripping out of the still loose and fluttering hole. He had the urge to press it back in, a primal one to have that evidence of their passion inside Sherlock.

Instead, he picked up his nightshirt and gently wiped Sherlock clean, then lay gentle kisses on each buttock. Dropping the night shirt on the floor, he rolled the drowsy and languid man over to wipe his front.

“We shall have to remove this coverlet, dearest!” murmured John.

Sherlock looked at him with a soporific look upon his face and, as pliant as a small child, he allowed John to move him so they could remove the stained coverlet. Afterwards, John found another blanket which he laid on the bed and they both burrowed themselves under the covers, limbs entwined.

“That was marvellous, my dear boy!” whispered John. “You are a marvel!”

“As are you,” replied Sherlock. “Never have I ever experienced such a moment as when you were inside me. It was even better than I expected!”

John chuckled.

“Is that enough data for you?”

“John, you should know that there must be multitudes of data, under different conditions!”

John kissed Sherlock thoroughly for that remark.

“I am forever at your disposal!”

“Forever?” And was that a tiny amount of uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice?

John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and spoke firmly, with love.

“Forever!”.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the cheesiness. Then again, have you read Mark Gatiss's porn? At least I don't describe buttocks as cheese in muslin...


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